Read The Gone Dead Train Online
Authors: Lisa Turner
The Gone Dead Train
For my friend Linda Kichline and my cousin James Flatter
Prologue
T
he sunset was a red slit of light like a devil's eye, hanging low and depraved over the Mississippi River bluff. Storm clouds thundered all around as Little Man Lacy ran for the river, his pants legs flapping, his long arms and big hands pumping as he moved up the street past the train depot. He was seventy-three years old, tall and skinny, his nose and earlobes giving way to gravity. He was meant to be a bluesman all his life, long as he could play. Instead, he'd dropped his music by the side of the road, abandoned his sax, like leaving an infant alone in a tub. Now fear was his instrument. His lips pressed together, and he hummed as he raced, searching for the pain that made his music real. But even the music couldn't help him now. He ran for the mighty Mississippi with all his heart, knowing water was his only salvation.
The Evils were upon him. He knew the power and the nature of the woman who'd released them. His breath whistled in his lungs, not because he was weak, but because the Evils were drying up everything strong inside. If he made it to the bridge, he might trick them into jumping in the water where they'd be trapped with no escape. Then he would stand on the bridge and laugh at their mistake, because everyone knows that once the Evils set out to take your soul, they'll have you one way or another. You can't shrug off fate, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't try.
The storm clouds hanging between him and the river saw him coming. They opened up, and the rain fell down. The water gave him hope that he wouldn't be taken, but the Evils just laughed, the sound buzzing in his ears like a thousand metal toys clicking.
By the time he reached the top of the hill, the street had filled with rain and mud that soaked his shoes. The mud was draining from the deep hole dug in the ground, deep as a cave. He saw
DANGER
signs and the neon sign for the Blue Monkey Club shining blue and yellow in the sky, which he took as a good omen. The river pulsed nearby, pounding in its banks. He heard its music.
He was a bluesman. He still had hope.
Then, around the corner came the woman carrying the Evils. She was tall and wearing golden hoops in her ears. She called out his name, “Little Man Lacy!” as she moved across the street like a viper on legs. She came at him with a small gray bag held high, a conjure bag made for carrying things only the Evils know.
His heart tore open. He turned to make a run for the river, but the mud was slick, and his feet went out from under him. He was falling.
The last thing Little Man Lacy saw as he tumbled into the pit was the woman's eyes shining in the dark.
H
is first night back in Memphis, Sergeant Detective Billy Able hit G4 on the jukebox, “Me and the Devil Blues.” He felt at home sitting on his favorite bar stool at Earnestine and Hazel's, drinking Miller High Life delivered by the bartender without his even having to ask. The music matched his mood for the eveningâraw and personal.
He raised the cold Miller to his lips and let the liquid roll down his throat. Coming up the long way, the hard way, you lose track. You tell yourself, “Anything good comes natural. Give it time.” You buy a bullshit line like that because slipping past a problem is less complicated than looking at it full on. At thirty-three years of age, Billy knew sliding past a problem was easier. You close the door and hear the click of the lock behind you.
He'd packed up that morning in Atlanta and walked out on the love of his life. After the eight-hour drive, he'd stopped at his place on the river to throw water on his face then had come directly to Earnestine and Hazel's, the most authentic piece of real estate in the city. Years ago, Otis Redding ate his lunch at Earnestine and Hazel's. Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, James Brown, Tina Turnerâthey all hung out with the ladies. Tonight, so would he.
The bar filled with purple light as the jukebox kicked in with a Red Davis classic, “You Ain't Enough for Me.” The jukebox was famous for spontaneously singling out a man and speaking to his pain. Billy was that man tonight. He swigged more beer.
You ain't enough for me
. Maybe that's what Mercy had been trying to say all along, and he hadn't been listening.
What he wanted now was a few beers and some peace. He didn't want to get drunk, just comfortable. He considered the next few days to be a well-deserved vacation. A ten-dollar tip left on the bar would change all that.
He spotted the ten before the bartender did. They both watched the skinny punk in the motorcycle jacket snake the bill into his back pocket. His buddies laughed and slapped him on the back for his audacity.
Tonight Billy wasn't a Memphis cop. He'd been on leave for nine months. The ten bucks weren't his responsibility.
“Hey!” the bartender yelled at the guy's back.
The punk turned to make a smart-ass remark, stumbled into a table, and knocked a drink into a woman's lap. The two men at her table jumped to their feet and threw back their chairs.
Billy knew what would happen next. A brawl, then the bartender would come from around the bar with a sawed-off pool cue. Broken chairs, busted lips. He set his beer down and stood up. The bartender had a new baby at home. He needed the ten bucks. Besides, it was theft.
The jackass with the money strolled toward the door. Billy shot out his boot and tripped him. The guy went facedown, hard. His buddies took one look at Billy's face and cleared out. He picked the bill from the punk's back pocket and slapped it on the bar. The guy got to his feet and ran.
Law school students wandered in. Soul burgers hissed off the flat-top grill. Behind them came the “S and P” or “Stand and Pose” groupâthe men in their polo shirts and pressed khakis, their big-bosomed women in strapless sundresses that they had to constantly hike up like they were hauling two-pound bags of flour on their chests.
The bartender set Billy up with another brew, but it didn't taste as good as the first. This wasn't the homecoming he'd intended.
He checked his watch. Still time to catch Ruby Wilson at the speakeasy above B. B. King's Blues Club on Beale Street. He walked outside and stood at the curb. The night had a swelter on. He stepped into the street and felt gravity pulling through the soles of his boots. He was back in Memphis.
A Riverfront trolley with its square windows of light sat in front of Central Station. A young woman turned from the window to speak with the man seated beside her. They laughed. Billy felt Mercy's fingers wrap into his, even though she hadn't reached for his hand in weeks. Until that morning he believed they still had a chance.
The sound of a blues guitar lifted in the night, coming from the train station's main terminal. The evening still had potential. He decided to check it out.
He forgot that nothing good ever happens after midnight.
B
illy bounded up the steps of Central Station in search of the blues guitar. During World War II, the cavernous terminal had been packed with travelers, a hub for fifty passenger trains a day carrying thousands of troops and tons of cargo. Now, The City of New Orleans was the only train that looped between Chicago and New Orleans, stopping in Memphis, morning and evening.
The terminal was empty except for a young guy across the way, playing a Les Paul Goldtop through a mini amp. The kid wore alligator boots and high-dollar jeans with a manufactured rip in the knee. Had to be a college student with a rich daddy.
He was working his way through “The Gone Dead Train,” a delta classic by King Solomon Hill. The notes bounced off the walls and flew straight to the top of the terminal like they were steel-winged birds. The kid's guitar chops weren't bad, but nothing in his young life could connect him to those heartbreaking lyrics. What he was, wasn't authentic.
Another man, old and brown-skinned, sat at the far end of the oak bench that ran the length of the terminal. His suit was stained and his tie hung askew. His legs were crossed at the knee, so a portion of one skinny calf showed above his sock. He'd twisted away from the kid and his guitar, head down and arms folded over the middle of his body as if he were being assaulted by the sound.
Billy recognized Red Davis, the bluesman whose song he'd just heard on the jukebox. Davis and his partner, Little Man Lacy, had come to Memphis in the aftermath of Katrina. He'd expected them to be the kings of Beale Street. Instead, they showcased at a couple of minor clubs and ended up living on the streets. Like so many other flood victims, Katrina had knocked the fight out of both men.
The kid's guitar screeched and wailed through the final bars, making Red's head jerk up. The old man glanced left, spotted Billy across the way, and came to his feet, eyes glistening with anxiety.
“What 'chu want from me?” he called in a hoarse voice.
Billy raised a hand. “Not a thing.” He took a step back, thinking he could still make Ruby's set if he didn't get caught up in this.
The kid broke in. “Mr. Davis, did you like that last riff? I wondered if I could sit in with you guys.” He beamed, apparently having heard the word “yes” all his life. “Mr. Davis?”
“Get out 'cheer, boy, you're bothering me,” Red snapped. “I got a train to catch.”
Billy knew the train for Chicago was two hours gone and wouldn't head back until tomorrow morning. He looked around, saw no bag and no guitar case for Red.
Still, the damned kid wouldn't back off. “No one blows a harp like you. No one plays bottleneck guitar like you either, not even Furry Lewis.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wallet, held it up for Red to see. “I'll pay if you let me sit in.”
Red swayed, the bulge of a pint showing through his suit pocket. “You can kiss my ass, son. That's what.”
The kid's face reddened, then he smirked at Billy and nodded toward Red. “I saw him come in the terminal so I played âThe Gone Dead Train' as a send-off. But he's not going anywhere. He's drunk. Guess people get old and lose it.”
Billy considered popping the kid for his insolence. “You heard Mr. Davis. He wants you out of here, so move it.” The guy shot him a belligerent look but went ahead and packed up the Les Paul. He left by a side door.
